It’s a parking lot on the 101 and I’m sweating like a pedophile on “To Catch A Predator” because it’s 98 degrees in the shade and my 40 year old German automobile has no air conditioning. I’m starting to contemplate whether it’s better to pull up to my destination in a classic vehicle and then step out in a sweat soaked vintage concert tee or lease a Hyundai with power everything and disappear into middle age mediocrity. But I can’t decide that right now because Post Malone is coming through the only working speaker and I’m about to have a schizophrenic break. One part of me is charmed by the melodious hook while the other is screaming that this vacuous excuse for popular music is degrading the ozone layer. Luckily my phone buzzes on the seat next to me and I quickly lift the device to see who is attempting to rescue me from this personal hell.

It’s Bobbi. She’s one of a small group of women that I keep in close personal contact with. They think I’m one of the girls but really I’m just keeping my ear to the ground in case the pending female uprising comes to extract our penises and bury them in a mass grave or worse, quarantine them in a concentration camp by the Denver Airport. That’s an event that I’d like some advanced warning on.

“What’s up girl?” I holler.

“Did you hear about Alex?”

“No. Do I want to?”

“She’s cheating on Cameron with like six dudes.”

“That’s not a surprise” I say as I turn to see a middle aged white man in his Prius singing Big Sean at the top of his lungs, “I don’t fuck with youuuuuu!”

“Well yeah but apparently she blew Jerry Bruckheimer at Wally Pfister’s New Years Eve party and then had a threesome with Diplo and Method Man on a private jet to Cabo.”

“She does that to everybody” I remind her.

“Aren’t you upset?” she worries.

“No I’m over it.”

“Are you sure?” She questions as if my continued pain is a source of nourishment.

“Positive. What else is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“What are you doing today?”

“Just steaming my yoni.”

“Do you still have that Jade Crystal jammed up there?”

“No! My naturopath told me that jade is super porous and all sorts of vaginal bacteria can get lodged in there and cause a fuck ton of problems if your trying to get pregnant.”

“Well I guess that’s another $250 flushed down the drain.”

She ignores me and continues prattling on.

“Rain just got back from doing Joe Dispenza’s course and she said it was the most incredible experience she’s ever had.”

“Didn’t she say the same thing about Kambo?”

“No she said that was next level. Do you think I should do it?’

“I don’t know. Is Rain in town?”

“No she’s off to do the Holotropic Breathwork seminar with Stanislav Grof after she journeys with Armand tonight.”

“Jesus. Is all that necessary?”

“Well yeah. I mean, she’s fighting NPD so she’s gotta do all the things.”

The notion seems ridiculous but I manage to declare, “That seems reasonable, I didn’t know Stanislav Grof was offering courses.”

“He’s not. She’s doing a private for 25 grand.”

After this revelation, I nearly pass out but the traffic appears to break up so I quickly switch lanes in an attempt to get ahead but find my path blocked again resulting in deep rooted anger and aggression causing me to repeatedly punch the passenger’s seat in a childish fit.

Then, without provocation and in excruciating detail, Bobbi launches into a play by play of a sexual excursion she had with Shia LeBeouf that apparently involved kitchen utensils, but my concentration rapidly wanes when I realize that I’m in desperate need of a dopa blast so I lift my phone and open Instagram where I’m relieved to find that I’ve amassed three likes on a recent photo I posted of my breakfast at Home State. One like is from my mother, the second is from someone with the handle @kalemetodeath and the third is from Bobbi and I realize that she punched the like while we were on the phone so clearly she’s not fully present and definitely did not read my long caption where I ramble on about how grateful I am for the overpriced breakfast taco I was about to consume. Nevertheless the little red hearts have managed to calm my anxiety just long enough for me to catch sight of a giant billboard exclaiming that “Chlamydia Is Back!” which causes me to have immediate discomfort in my genital area as I’m forced to confront my many unsafe and unprotected sexual escapades with women of the night as well as regular girls with very low standards. This, in combination with the sex talk, has me reaching for a Xanax and forces me to blurt out, “Can we please talk about something else?”

Bobbi is immediately offended and after a short pause says “I mean… Fine. But I listen to all your bullshit all the time.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

There’s dead silence on the other end and I recognize it as female anger so I calmly say,

“Are you upset?”

“No it’s fine. It just feels judgey.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just going through something. That’s all.”

“It’s okay.”

She appears to recover quickly and that’s a relief because having to explain my way out of an insensitive remark to my lady crew can be exhausting. But I don’t fully trust it so I try to entrap her by muttering,

“Have you heard the future is female?”

“Totally!” she exclaims with a renewed excitement and this fills me with suspicion and dread.

“Listen Bobbi, I gotta jump. I just arrived at my meeting.”

“Okay. Let’s chat later.”

“For sure.” I hang up and suddenly I’m struck with tremendous fear as I feel the divine feminine portal opening up to swallow me in it’s cavernous darkness and decrepitude. The terror is monstrous and I don’t know what to do. Luckily, the Xanax kicks in and I recall some spiritual teachings from a self help book I thumbed through at Urban Outfitters.

“Think positively” I consider to myself.

“Perhaps they’ll elect to spare you. After all there has to be some representation of masculine energy around on the planet. It’s just common sense. Perhaps they’ll even use you as a sexual object to fulfill their most interesting fantasies and keep you well nourished with plenty of grass fed beef and organic vegetables. Maybe they’ll allow you to roam peacefully and continue to watch your favorite programs on the various platforms now available to us.”

I’m now chemically calm and my thoughts are in line with my deepest desires and I’m resonating with tremendous vibrancy as the traffic opens up and, as I hit the fast lane a warm breeze enters the window and separates my sweat soaked Slayer Tee from my sticky body.